Tranquil rumors murmered

So Fearful, So erotic, so dead. Already Dead wont to choose a lingering moment of lingering froth uponst a quivering brow you practically named thy first born the same. Either that or greg. We cheer for the shakers and bury them deep. Nobody asked me to. Not like anybody asked me to. The words slither into the ears of doubters and plague them with a need for opium. Only when drugged does the demon of good fortune slow dance with greg, the gradual menace of poor choices and regret. And only during their dance, can we sneak off and hump in the swamp behind the development.
Enough nonsense, breath in and fertilize your lungs and brain with a pungent manure of hope. There is hope, but it comes only with focus. Focus you fool.
Let thy lips be moist, let thy brow convict, let thy knees spring powerfully and thy pelvis do the talking.